


So Much Of Me

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [19]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Chant of Light, Continuation of the Sub-Plot, Depression, Drunkenness, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, LaDeirn Estate Murders, Loneliness, M/M, Pining, Specifically the Spirit of Faith Hawke is Contracted With, Spirit Healer Hawke, Strained Friendships, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Azzan Hawke acts on the letter that was sent to him while still suffering from the loss of his mother.





	So Much Of Me

Azzan raced down the stairs. “Bodahn!” He held out the letter, his lips pressed into a frown, only to find Orana standing in Bodahn’s usual place beside the foyer. She wrung her hands and stared at him with eyes so wide he could barely see her bright green eyeshadow.

“Mr. Bodahn said he was gonna go with the boy to where he met the person who gave him that letter, master,” she said, speaking before he could even reach her. Sandal played with a stone, mumbling quietly to himself as they spoke. “He said he paid the boy to tell him what the man looks like, and to take him there. He told me to tell you if you came to see him.”

Azzan nodded and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled his fingers from the knot and turned to go back to his room. The next instant, he turned back around to face Orana. “Thank you for telling me. That was well done of both of you. I’m grateful.”

Orana beamed and dipped into a curtsy. “Master is too kind. I’m glad to be of help.” Her smile, which melted the years of pain off her face like water, dimmed slightly. “I’m sorry about your mama. I will miss her.”

Azzan sucked in a sharp breath. Just like that, the pain rushed back, all at once. “Thank you,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. “I know she was of great help to you. Is there...” His hands shook. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, no, please.” She held up her hands. “I am fine, master. She taught me well. I’ll be able to service you properly, I swear it.”

“No. I know that. Thank you.” Perhaps it would be best if they simply kept the conversation on such topics as work. For both their sakes. “Bodahn. That description he said he got. Did he tell it to you?”

She shook her head, her eyes going wide again. “I don’t know it. I’m so sorry, master. I’ve already disappointed you.”

“You haven’t, Orana. You didn’t do anything wrong; there’s no need to apologize. I’ll just have to wait for Bodahn to come back.”

But waiting was almost interminable, and after a few minutes he stopped pacing uselessly and turned to his room. “I’m going to get dressed. Orana, could you do me a huge favor and go buy some more medical supplies? I’ll make a list for you to give to Lady Elegant, along with the money.”

Orana wrung her hands some more. “Of course, master. Um… how do you… want me...”

Hawke had been helping her learn to read, as he had with Fenris, but her progress was much slower – likely because because she did not have as strong a desire to learn as Fenris did. But Hawke wanted her to be able to eventually forge her own path, to live as freely as she, and everyone else, deserved. She would be given every opportunity.

But until then… “That’s all right,” he said. “Just show it to Lady Elegant. She’ll know what to do with it.” Azzan couldn’t be sure, of course, but he was willing to bet that the threat in the letter was not idle. Someone, somewhere, was going to hurt someone. This time, he would not be too late.

He was fully dressed and back to pacing in the Main Hall – his mind cruelly making him think of how, if his mother were there – if she was still alive – she would be able to calm his unsteady nerves, give him some sort of labor to make him feel that he was accomplishing something, keeping himself busy while also helping his mother out, keeping his mind or body busy… by the time Bodahn finally, finally returned, Azzan had worked himself into a right state.

Bodahn, for his part, ran right up to Hawke. “Master Hawke! I expect you’re curious about that letter the boy sent?”

Azzan nodded, nearly vibrating where he stood. “Very.”

Bodahn moved straight back to the door, calling to his son as he did. “Stay there while we’re gone!”

Sandal waved. “Bye!”

Azzan turned. Orana had already headed out, Azzan’s list and money in her hands. It was time they did the same.

* * *

The streets were busy, bodies pressed against bodies as many started their days, servants racing to pick up merchandise or buy something the nobility found too unimportant to take care of themselves. Guards, likewise, were switching shifts, a few pausing on the sides of the street to give their replacement a report. A group of templars marched through, hands on their swords as they hurried on to business Hawke dare not think about.

The square was even more raucous than usual, entire clusters of people standing before some of the stands, each shouting over the others to be heard. Bodahn navigated it all with practiced ease, while Azzan, still a country boy at heart, gawked as people reached around one another to snatch something off a rack before the other could – he watched a fight take place because of it. Two guards had to pry the women apart.

“What in the world?” he said. Someone bumped into his shoulder. He barely maintained his balance.

“Seems there’s some big festival soon,” Bodahn said. “A lot of shops are selling things at a discount, hoping to live in the customers before and during the big show.”

“It certainly seems to have worked,” Azzan remarked and watched an old woman and a young man fight over a bottle of perfume. It crashed to the ground, causing a wave of bodies to jump back to avoid the glass. The shopkeep pointed at the two and shouted. A third, harried-looking guard came up to the stand. Hawke caught a strong whiff of what seemed to be clovers and white jasmine.

With a pang, he realized it was a scent his mother would have liked.

They left Hightown behind with some effort, Hawke kind of hoping that their journey took long enough that he needn’t return until that crowd was long gone. Lowtown was busier than usual, as well, but nothing like Hightown. Lowtown’s people still needed to work to put food on their tables, festival or no.

Still, the merchants by the stairs were kept busy. People walked to and from each, sampling the wares with the frugality of those with little to spend. A bunch of kids ran around the shopping district, likely brought there by one or more of the women checking the jewelry and clothes for sale. Their laughter echoed off the high walls. Hawke met Lady Elegant’s gaze for a moment and nodded, but he didn’t go to her. She would end him his things when they were ready, and Elegant wasn’t a woman to be rushed.

They traveled past Lowtown, past its vendors and side alleys and cramped living spaces, past The Hanged Man and the alienage. They traipsed down the stairs to Darktown with Bodahn in the lead. Down here, the crowd was unsurprising – Darktown was always full to bursting with people. Most simply tried to survive, but some were willing to go further to ensure that goal, and Hawke tensed in preparation. Bodahn, meanwhile, slowed his steps, his gaze furtive as he checked the area. A few times, the dwarf altered their path with no warning, and Azzan realized the man could tell, simply by looking, whether someone was going to be troublesome.

Finally, Bodahn stopped moving and pointed at the ground. “Here, sir. This is where the boy said he met up with the man. Darker skin, and tall, the boy said. Someone not native to Darktown, who saw a lot of sun. Hair dark brown, in a short cut, with wide eyes and a sharp chin. According to the boy, he looked a little too clear for the air he was puttin’ out. Acted hunched and feeble – it’s why the boy said he was tall, all hunched and still about – well, about your height, sir.”

Azzan looked around. Hunched and feeble would do better in this place than tall and confident. It may be that the man simply wished to blend in to these surroundings. But if not – if he was hiding in case Azzan hunted him down – did that mean Azzan knew him? Or did it mean he simply didn’t wish to be caught?

If he was the man responsible for the recent deaths of those with anti-mage sentiments, then he would have more than enough reason to hide his identity.

The area he stood within was only a few turns from Anders’ clinic. He could ask him if… but even if Anders did know the man, then would he want to help? Whoever this killer was, they were killing off enemies of mages. More and more, Anders had grown bitter and cruel, the years wearing on his kindness until there was little left. He’d even lost so much control over the demon inside him that he had almost murdered an innocent woman.

But this man might be targeting mages next, if his most recent letter was anything to go by. Surely Anders would care about _that?_

He scoped out the area first, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Liquor bottles on the ground, barrels of trash piled up on the sides of the narrow street, people mumbling and grumbling as they made their ways back and forth, no place to go and nowhere to stay. The area Bodahn had pointed to was worn down with tracks, but not much else. Still, Hawke spent countless minutes looking around, speaking with some of the people crouched around the street, seeing if anyone remembered a man going by Bodahn’s description. A few vaguely recalled a couple of people by that description, but most stuck to the Darktown principle of “see nothing, hear nothing, speak nothing.” He finally gave up and sighed. He had to hope Anders knew something, because if not, their search was dead in the water.

The walk to Anders’ place took only a few moments, unbroken by battle due to Bodahn’s uncanny senses. Anders was busy at his table, his patients mingling as he dealt with something. Whatever the trouble, however, Anders willingly set it aside the instant he looked up and caught sight of Azzan. “Hawke!” he said, clearly surprised. “I didn’t think you’d – well.” He cleared his throat. “What can I – is there anything I can do?”

Azzan winced. His chest tore; he could almost hear it rip. “No. That’s not – thank you, Anders. But I didn’t come here for that.” Azzan strode forward, past the patients, who stared at him as he moved, pushing himself effectively tot he front of the line. If this weren’t as potentially devastating as it was, he would have helped lighten Anders’ load before taking up his attention. “I’m here because of the mage I spoke to you about. The one who likely killed the LaDeirn estate, and the mother and daughter?” he said, specifically bringing up the worst of the murders and leaving out how they’d been for templar control. Even so, his words made Anders’ face go tight.

“What of him?” Anders asked. His voice was clipped. It didn’t give Azzan much hope.

Azzan very carefully threw Anders a bone. “You know I don’t believe it’s a mage, Anders.”

There was only a slight thaw in that frozen stance, but not much else. Not enough to calm Azzan. “What about him, then?” Anders repeated. “I certainly don’t know anyone like that.”

“No,” he soothed, not willing to bring up the loaded subject of Anders’ own deal with a spirit that had turned. “But I’m hoping you know a tall man with a dark tan? He would have been seen walking with a fake hunch throughout Darktown lately.”

“Why?” Anders asked, leaning against the table and crossing his arms. “What is this? Do you have a lead or something?”

Azzan grimaced. This was another reason he’d hesitated. Not telling Anders would mean making it clear he was hiding something. Telling him would be admitting to something he didn’t even fully understand yet. “I may be wrong, but I received a letter. It may be nothing, but the author made references to being the one responsible for the murders.”

That had Anders snapping to attention. _“What?”_

Azzan shrugged. Several people were leaning forward now, not even pretending to be subtle as they attempted to eavesdrop. At least Bodahn stood before them, acting as a silent wall of entrepreneurial friendliness. It sounded like the dwarf was trying to sell something. “I received another letter today. The boy who delivered it gave me that description.”

Anders ran a hand over his mouth, dragged it down through his stubble. “All right. I’ll ask around. Andraste’s ass, Hawke, what does this person want with you?”

Azzan thought of that very first message, warning him to not let his friends stay through the night. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know. This last one was just a wish of condolence for my loss, and a promise to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

Anders’ eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a threat against mages.”

Azzan nodded. “If there’s a way to warn your contacts about a man fitting that description–”

“I’ll let them know,” Anders said, voice firm. “What about you? Who else knows about this guy?” Azzan grimaced. Anders took on look and groaned. “As much as I don’t like her, don’t you think Aveline should know?”

Azzan shivered. He couldn’t help it. He’d trusted Aveline to have his back, to watch for him, since before they’d even arrived in Kirkwall. Only to find, years later, that she had made a threat against him so strong that even Fenris, with his distrust of mages, had felt compelled to protect him.

What had been so bad that it had evoked such a response? Fenris had gone so far as to lure him from his home, placing him in a position of defense in a building that wasn’t his. To give him a chance to escape? A chance to keep his mother uninvolved? Or was it just to keep him somewhere Aveline wouldn’t immediately look – something that would have failed, unfortunately, since he was well known to spend his free time over at Fenris’, at least before… that night. And since none of their friends knew about that night, she would check Fenris’ place immediately after checking his own.

But she and her guards had helped him try to find his mother, and this was certainly something that should normally be a guard matter. Anders was right. He gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll speak with her. Just be careful, Anders – you may be targeted, yourself.”

Anders snorted. “Merrill, too.”

Azzan’s heart seized. There were too many friends to protect. “Yeah.” Kirkwall, for whatever reason, seemed to attract blood mages and abominations. There were plenty of others who could be targeted. But then again, what were the chances that someone who knew about him wouldn’t know about his two friends?

His heart pounded in his chest. “I need to go. Will you be all right?”

Anders smirked and waved him on. “If this idiot comes after me, he’s gonna be in for a rude awakening.”

Azzan wasn’t so sure. This man may have started out going after weaklings, but he’d taken down a high-ranking templar last time. A man who could do that would be trouble, even for Anders. Azzan looked around. The one thing he could rely on was witnesses. Some of them had to know he’d come. He would leave a few hints about being willing to protect their doctor, just in case they didn’t already know. If anything happened, someone might come to him to let him know.

He excused himself from Anders’ company and, with Bodahn following silently at his side, left his remarks on those most likely to spread the news. Anders didn’t even look twice at him; it was normal for Hawke to help out in the clinic where he could.

Once they were out of the clinic and heading back up to Lowtown, he leaned over and spoke to Bodahn. “I need you to go back to the house and check on Orana and Sandal. Don’t let anyone into the house.” He didn’t have any family left to protect, but he would make sure no one else got pulled into his curse. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen to you, but I want you able to run, just in case.”

Bodahn nodded, his face serious. “I’m ashamed I let those letters through,” he said. “If I’d had any idea what was in them, I never would have let them cross your desk, sir.”

Azzan shook his head. “It’s fine, Bodahn. At least now we have some sort of lead. We know what the real killer looks like. It’s better than more friends being arrested.” He smiled, and Bodahn nodded, though his brows still curled down. The man would be holding himself responsible for a while. No one took their self-imposed duties more seriously.

After the dwarf had gone, Azzan thought over his choices. Leaving Merrill unprotected wasn’t really high on his list, once he started thinking straight. For the moment, it seemed this killer recognized Hawke’s friends as people to be, of a sort, protected. The man had left an actual apology in the second letter for having gotten Isabela and Merrill involved in his killings. If this man continued his pattern, they would be safe simply because of their friendship with him – if he was interpreting the letters properly.

The letters. It would be best to show them to Aveline, if nothing else. He’d at least had the foresight to keep them.

The trek back through Lowtown showed no change from their previous journey; if anything, even more people had congregated to the streets. Most, however, seemed to be carrying items back from the shops, or heading to work, or running errands. The children had been taken inside, either to help their parents work or to teach them, as many parents would try to do at least once or twice a week. Still, the streets were busy, and he prepared himself before heading up into Hightown.

The merchant square was in chaos. He stood in the corner by the top of the stairs, staring wide-eyed at the people sliding past one another, congested in tens around the counters of the stalls while the guards corralled the worst of them like untamed horses. Somehow, it looked even worse than before, as more nobility got in on the action, finally waking from their sleep and coming out ‘early’ to shop. How had he and Bodahn gotten through this mess before? How was he supposed to do so now?

He retreated, found the path that led closer to Fenris’ mansion and the Chantry, and took the long way around. His heart, even after the longer walk, still pounded in his chest. He’d thought he’d grown accustomed to city life. Apparently not.

He looked to Fenris’ home as he passed the steps leading to it. He remembered the night his mother died in a rush, his sobbing and subsequent handing over of items he’d had no business foisting off on Fenris. It was in him to go up and ask for them back, to apologize for putting Fenris in the position where, having seen him at his lowest, he had to choose between accepting or throwing Azzan back into despair. It didn’t matter that Azzan had told him not to accept if he didn’t want to; how could he afford to refuse?

But he didn’t. It was selfish, and unfair, and cruel. But he’d meant what he’d said. The emblem was made for him, and arguably his mother’s final wish. And the favor was… over the top, yes, but it was something else he’d meant. And he didn’t want Fenris thinking that ripped curtain was all the meanings of the favor meant to him. Fenris wasn’t some last-minute mercenary; he was, in every meaning that counted, Azzan's knight. And since the elf had still been wearing the makeshift favor after that night…

He walked past, toward the Keep.

He could return to his home, get the letters, and bring them to Aveline. But what if she didn’t listen to him when he brought the information to her attention? Well, so long as it concerned those who weren’t mages, he could count on her support. And she likely wouldn’t be all right with the deaths of innocents… or at least, she wouldn’t be all right with letting the murderer go free. But what if she suspected him? What if she got the templars involved and informed them of his own involvement, however peripherally, in this man’s motivations? The templars already had their eyes on him after he’d protected Isabela from their unfounded arrest. Cullen had warned him that he was be watched. Just the reminder of it had him feeling that remembered fear, the knowledge that he could easily be trapped within those walls forever.

At least, he thought with a surprising twist of bitterness, should the worst come to pass, his mother would not have to see.

Just a month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to bring these letters to her attention. He would have gone to her immediately, letters in hand, and offered her his help. Now all he felt was trepidation. It was made worse as he approached the Keep and headed up the stairs; the number of people about meant the guards were out in swarms, and he passed over a dozen as he made into the building. The building itself was crammed full of people, though everyone seemed intent on acting as if they weren’t surrounded by others; they stood in large clumps around the main room, stood by the edges of the stairs, and kept their voices to a soft murmur. This place, at least, wasn’t as chaotic as the marketplace, if only because it could cause a scandal to act otherwise. His progress was only slowed a couple of times, each to give him empty condolences for the loss of his mother. “Just as she’d returned to her name,” one woman had cooed, hiding her lips behind her fan and watching him with hawk’s eyes. He nodded in thanks and moved on, aware that many of the whispers at his back were a bit too furtive to be about anything other than himself – about, perhaps, the curse of magic on his family.

He was starting to believe such a thing, himself. He hated himself for it.

The barracks were almost as congested as the marketplace; several guards came and went, brushing past Azzan without a murmur, their faces pulled and worn as if they’d been through some hard battle. He watched a man stumble into the side room, faceplant onto a cot, and start snoring immediately, armor still on. Several stood around the duty roster, shouting out orders and assignments to those in the back who couldn’t see past them. Aveline stood in front of it all, pointing around and barking orders. Azzan stood to the side, once again overwhelmed by the sudden influx of _people_. Finally, after several minutes, Aveline looked over and saw him. “Hawke!” she said, clearly just as surprised to see him as Anders had been. She pointed at a woman with short blond hair. “You’re in charge until I come back. I know this is a lot of work, everyone, but you can handle it. You all have proven your merit before. This is just you proving it again.”

Azzan followed her into her room when she waved him inside. The shouts were only slightly muffled by the closed door, but at least with that ruckus out there, there was no chance anyone would overhear their conversation. “Aveline, there’s something I have to discuss with you.”

“Hawke.” She leaned against the wall by her desk and crossed her arms. “I don’t care what else is going on. We haven’t spoken about Leandra.”

Azzan winced. He expected to be blamed. He expected to be chastised, perhaps, on the dangers of magic. Perhaps even on the dangers of being linked with a spirit. Instead he got a story about her father, about how he would read to her at night. He didn’t understand why – his grief had nothing to do with her father. Until she finally made her point: “And when someone says, ‘move on,’ you take their hand and say, ‘ _my_ choice.’”

“That’s all I have,” she said, looking suddenly awkward. “I’ll miss her, too.”

He breathed deep. It meant more than she made it appear. After the strained relationship they’d struggled through these past weeks, for her to offer him any sort of comfort was a huge step. She even offered him a drink, even though she was busy and it was the beginning of the day. He, on a strong whim he himself hadn’t been prepared for, had even accepted, despite knowing he should be sober for this.

For what? For searching for a man he didn’t know as he moved to kill anyone in Kirkwall? His mother had just died the day before. Surely he was allowed a drink. Forgetting, letting himself go – why couldn’t he let himself do that?

She led him out of her room, away from the barracks and out of the Keep. Without even considering her options, she moved him away from the marketplace and around to Lowtown the long way. They didn’t speak, despite how important Azzan knew his information to be. He hadn’t considered alcohol when facing what had happened. It seemed so obvious now. Alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. He knew, long-term, it wouldn’t do anything for him. Even short-term, it would just get in the way. But it sounded wonderful, the idea of not carrying this awful weight. The idea of not remembering her every minute, of not remembering how he’d failed every single member of his family, every single person who was important to him.

He hated, absolutely hated, how his mind went to Fenris, as he wondered just how he’d failed him, too, to have made the man turn away from him so completely.

Faith shored itself upon him, its presence pressed against the deep walls of his mind, connected through the slim link between his magic and the Fade. It felt like something cool pressed against a heated heart. He slowed, not even realizing he’d somehow pushed them into a punishing pace as they’d made their way to The Hanged Man, and touched his chest. Hadn’t he come to the conclusion that it wasn’t him? Hadn’t he realized that Fenris’ choices were his to make?

(Just as, some part whispered to himself, it had been his mother’s choice to date, and his to miss the signs.)

Alcohol. Alcohol had to make this better.

They reached the tavern and went inside. Oddly enough, as busy as the rest of the city was, the tavern was practically empty. Only one other person sat, drinking alone at the far table in the corner. Even Isabela had yet to wake to the day. A bored waitress barely glanced over at them as they entered, leaning slowly up from her place at the counter to make her way to them as they sat to the left of the entrance. “Two ales, please,” Aveline said before they could so much as pull out their chairs. It was clear she had no intention of letting him pay. The waitress about-faced and headed back to the bartender. The man was already making the drinks – with so few people around, it was easy to hear their order. Aveline leaned one elbow on the table, but still didn’t say anything. If he wanted to sit in silence perusing the depths of his drink, she would let him.

The waitress clunked two glasses in front of them. He stared at the amber liquid within for long, horrible minutes. He closed his eyes. “I’ve been receiving letters.”

She didn’t react one way or another. “All right,” she said, not committing to curiosity, surprise, or anything else. Somehow, it was that that gave him the strength to continue.

“The first was – well, I still have them. In a drawer in my room.” The last, actually, was still in his pocket. He pulled it out, moving as if in a daze. His gaze caught once more on the ale. He could drink that and, if he was very lucky, he might even manage to forget himself for a short time. He handed the note to Aveline and gripped the handle.

He would forget for a few hours. Then he would wake up, in pain and miserable, his time drunk potentially blanked out by the liquor. He would be where he’d been before, but with a roiling stomach and a pounding head to join it. He wouldn’t want to stay in such a state.

If he started drinking, he might never stop.

He shoved the mug away and clenched his fingers around the edge of the table. “The first letter was a simple note about letting Fenris stay over for a night.” Aveline’s gaze flicked up to him at that, but he carefully showed nothing, if it was unimportant, and she glanced back down at the note again. Her brows knitted. “The second arrived after Isabela was released. It promised to make sure people understood who committed the murders. Specifically, that he committed them.”

Her gaze shot up at that. “’He?’” she quoted.

He nodded. “The writer. He insinuated that he was the one who killed Addison.”

Carefully, she put down the note. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

It would be wise to refrain from reminding her of their strained friendship, or from speaking on his concerns over how she would respond to this information. She would likely find it more important, for instance, to catch this killer by any means possible, even if it meant, say, involving the templars. The killer was, after all, an abomination. Instead he said, “I still have no reason to think this is actually the culprit. As I said, the first note was a warning about letting friends stay over for the night. The two didn’t exactly mesh. If someone wanted my attention, an easy way to do it would be to pretend to be a killer.”

Aveline thought about it for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. “You do seem to invest yourself in every problem in Kirkwall,” she said. She sighed and put the paper down. “So what is this man talking about that made it necessary for you to come to me?”

He gritted his teeth and nodded to the letter. “That letter came this morning. Only one thing happened yesterday that merits that remark.”

Her lips thinned. “You think he’s targeting blood mages? Is this a bad thing?”

“One of my friends is a blood mage,” Azzan reminded her, his tone sharp enough to warn her not to say anything against Merrill. “And others, like myself, are allied with spirits.”

“Or demons,” she said, her gaze sharp. They both knew who she was talking about.

“Whether we like them or not, whether we agree with them or not, they are still people. I’ve fought plenty of people, killed many,” he said, and kept his voice calm through sheer effort. “But never before they attacked me. And if the people targeted aren’t blood mages? Or even if they are, and I knew they were being targeted and did nothing? What would that make me?”

Aveline’s lips thinned. She didn’t say anything.

As much as she was willing to comfort him after the loss of his mother, that in no way meant she was on his side when it came to mage freedoms. He hated blood mages as much as the rest of them, but to blame all mages simply for the link to the Fade they were born with – to treat every mage as evil, or an abomination waiting to happen – all that did was encourage those same mages onto that same path. Why bother being something better if no one saw you as anything else?

And, despite how he felt about them, blood mages were still people. Merrill was proof of that.

The silence between them stretched, until his hands itched to pick up the mug. He stood. “If nothing else, I’m sure you’re interested in finding the killer. He’s tall, with darkly tanned skin and a sharp chin. Before you ask, I had Bodahn ask the messenger boy what the man looked like.” He left a few coppers on the table and turned to leave. When Aveline started to balk about the money, he just smiled at her. “My choice,” he said, and left.

He felt worse than before he’d gone to see her.

The tension between them – he wondered if it would ever truly be gone. He didn’t want the yawning gap to continue growing, but he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know if he _should_.

It wasn’t his job to rebuild a bridge someone else had burned down, but damned if he didn’t want to get to the other side.

If he started listing the bonds that he had left to him, the list would look sad, indeed. Of his family, only his uncle and brother remained. His uncle was a man who cared more for money than for family, though he had at least allowed Azzan, Carver, and their mother to remain in his home while they dealt with their first year in Kirkwall. Carver was practically lost to him, running with the Grey Wardens. Better than dead, but still likely to never be sen again.

And his friends? Aveline, the first to know of his magic, had turned from him the instant she’d seen the reflection of her own weakness. Anders, the one he’d thought most like him, slowly falling into the darkness of the demon within him. Fenris, the man he loved, reconciled to be his friend, if not anything else. Merrill, a young woman he felt more obligated to protect, reminding him of the good aspects of his sister while bearing the hallmark of an influence far beyond her control. Isabela, a woman so wild and free she could never stay in one place for long. Sebastian, who clung so close to the Chantry he hardly heard the Chant over the voices of those pretending to preach it. And Varric, loyal and steadfast and unflinching.

He scrubbed his face and turned back toward his house. There was still one last thing he had to do, and it was perhaps the most important.

When he got back home, it was to find that Bodahn has squirreled away Sandal and Orana into the back of the house, ready to make a departure the instant anything happened. Azzan thanked him for it and told him of the hidden exit he and Carver had found once, several years ago, when they’d been looking for their grandfather’s will. Orana seemed unnaturally calm about the whole event, and went about her business getting supper ready and dusting the library the instant he gave them the okay. Sandal, likely blissfully unaware of the tension still shivering up and down Bodahn’s arms, returned to his spot in the main room and played with two stones.

Azzan went to his room, sat at his desk, and wrote a letter to Ashra, his contact in the mage resistance group. He warned her of the man, his description, and his intentions, then put the letter in an envelope and spent another hour tracing a winding path through the busy streets of Kirkwall, concerned now of being watched and followed, before finally placing the letter at one of the drops and taking another winding path back home. He managed two steps past The Hanged Man before his feet turned of their own volition to the door.

When he entered, the place was still as dead slow as before, the waitress still leaning against the counter. She took one look at him and raised both eyebrows. He nodded a short greeting to her, then turned his head to the stairs. He needed to not be alone. He needed a friend. He needed…

He headed to the back, his pace quick now that he was certain of his path. He heard Varric talking, however, and paused just at the top of the stairs. Business? Every once in a while, Varric could actually be found speaking with the Merchant’s Guild, or dealing with his editor, or even just working with his spy network or something. If it was business, he didn’t want to interrupt–

It was Fenris’ voice Azzan heard responding to Varric’s.

His heart pounded in his chest. If he was honest, of course the first person he would want to see was Fenris. Of course he would want to speak with Fenris about his troubles, to hear the practical, unflinching advice the man would give him. Of _course_ he wanted to speak with Fenris.

But he’d sobbed on Fenris all through the night, and then had nearly forced the man to accept that which he’d already turned away from. Azzan had been needy and clingy and selfish, even after accepting that what he wanted could never be, after _knowing_ Fenris needed his space and freedom. He knew better than to demand even more.

He turned and walked away. The waitress gave a loud, irritated huff as he departed.

* * *

His home felt empty. So empty the emptiness yawned within him, around him. He sat at his desk in his room, the evening light from outside clouded by gray as storm clouds rolled in. Thunder rumbled. He shivered in the cold, too lifeless to get up to stoke life into the hearth. Dinner sat cold by his elbow, dinner Orana had made – dinner his mother had taught her how to make.

Slowly, he got to his feet. He made his way down the stairs, past the main room, where Sandal still played with his rocks and Bodahn scratched notes onto a parchment, a crate of medical supplies by his side. Aegis huffed quietly, sleeping soundly in front of the main hearth. Azzan entered the library and slowly closed the door.

The Agreggio Fenris had given him still sat on the table in front of the fire. He grabbed it and wrenched off the cap.

* * *

He opened his eyes to a gray-green haze, his body floating yet heavy, as if he’d sunk into some deep depth of water. A wavering, bright form stood over him, its attention on something beyond him. “Into the dream they strode, dauntless, for nothing in the realm of gods or man could keep them from their promised prize.”

That voice. He blinked again, and then again, and finally made out the edges of the light above him. It did not take on its usual form, but nonetheless he recognized it, the feel of it as it encased him in its warmth, the bright sun of a summer’s day against his heated flesh. He looked out beyond them, but saw nothing but green and ash.

“And he saw only hunger and envy in their hearts, only pride and desire in their eyes, and He knew that they knew Him not.”

He struggled to get up, but the weight on his chest was too heavy to bear. He sucked in a breath, only to feel something across his bond with Faith – something almost like pain. Some external force fought to change her, to alter her purpose into something darker, more sinister. On instinct he shored her up, granted her his magic and his heart to resist whatever attempted to pull her from her path. He felt a darkness within him, a cold winter, and he shuddered. The revulsion in him seemed to settle Faith, however, and she turned warm and inviting once more. “The Maker of All spoke to the Seven then, saying: “Into my house you walk uninvited, demanding rewards you have not earned. On wings of death and suffering are you born hence.”

Her words spoke of something trying to attack, or to corrupt. A demon? Had he fallen prey to a demon while he slept, drunkenly passed out in his library, falling further and further into a despair he knew better than to let govern him? Had he placed himself and Faith in such danger? Shame touched him, and he fought like a hellcat to stand up. Faith’s warmth, however, was implacable, and she gently pushed him back down. He resisted for only a moment before placing his trust in her.

“You have chosen, and spilled the blood of innocents for power. I pity your folly, but still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken in pursuit of selfish goals. No more will you bear the Light. To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!”

The world around him rumbled. Still trapped in place by an enormous weight, he felt the world shift and turn and spill, as if watching entire cities flash before his sight. Yet Faith never moved from his side – only the background, the world beyond the two of them, moved and moved and moved. He couldn’t catch his breath. He started fighting for an entirely different reason, his chest heaving as he sucked futilely for air. He tried to reach up to grab his throat, only for his arms to push ineffectually at the weight Faith pressed down upon him. He bucked as much as possible with the barrier against him. Spots danced in front of his eyes.

Just as the world started going black, everything stopped and the weight disappeared. He rolled on his side and gasped.

“Wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded, never to heal, death for me come.”

He heaved in great, gasping gulps of air, his head dizzy, his vision swirling, barely able to raise his head to look up. Faith stared down at him, back in her usual form, the long cloak of her body covering all but the unnaturally long tips of her fingers. He blinked, but she did not speak again.

Before, her words had been those spoken by the Maker when the magisters had stepped into his Golden City. He rubbed his head and sat back, too tired yet to stand. Yet now she returned to Andraste 1 and the story of her meeting with the Maker.

The previous may have been for whatever had entered her domain without permission, but these were for him.

He’d fallen into despair. It was a dangerous road for a mage without a spirit contracted to his soul, but nearly suicidal for one with. Shame touched him again, and he bowed his head. He’d known better. There were no excuses.

“Bitter is sorrow, ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Silence. Faith was not like humans – she saw no reason to hold grudges or carry hate or disappointment. Still, he found himself surprised when she leaned down and touched his cheek. He looked into her eyes and saw a green so deep it seemed endless. “You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr,” she said, a repetition of that which she’d spoken when he’d gone to her just a short time before, when he’d faced another, different loss. “Within My creation, none are alone.”

She echoed the words of the Maker. He closed his eyes and let her light shine on him, a small piece of what the Maker had created for this world. It wasn’t surprising to feeling the echoes of His majesty here, where He’d first planted the seeds of life, or within Faith, who embodied man’s devotion to Him. Yet, despite having been reminded of this just a number of days ago, he’d managed once again to forget.

If he went to Isabela, she would pull him into some madness that would make him forget everything else. If he went to Merrill, she would sit him down at her small table and quietly ply his feelings out of him, her big eyes focused on him as he spoke, her very essence leaning forward to catch him. Anders would sit with him, work with him through the Fade and help him shore himself up while his emotions made him vulnerable. Aveline would sit with him, lending him her silent company as she worked, a steady presence by his side. Sebastian would hear his doubts, his fears, and remind him, as Faith did, of the Maker and His light. He could go to Varric and get drunk with friends, play cards and forget the rest of the world. And Fenris…

Fenris had already come to him, of his own volition. Even when the man had said he couldn’t be what Azzan wanted him to be, still he had come when he’d been most needed.

He stared up at her. “Thank you,” he said. With her help, he stood.

Sorrow paralyzed the heart. It kept people from seeing beauty, from feeling happiness or love. He’d been falling into its depths, trapped in a darkness so thick it choked. He held on to Faith and her light, bowed his head to it and breathed deep. His lungs seemed to burn from the effort.

He didn’t want to live like this. He didn’t want to hide away in a room of his house, drinking until the world finally quieted and he fell unconscious. He didn’t want to think poorly of those he loved, or think that they’d abandoned him. _He didn’t want this_.

He smiled. It was hard, and brittle, and right. The first step. “We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, only a Light in this darken’d time breaks.” Faith nodded at his own recitation. The warmth of its aura encircled him.

Keep moving forward, his mother used to say when his legs got tired, his feet sore from the trek from mountain village to distant pastureland, one small town to another. In time, she’d said, the pain you feel will be rewarded by an end. After a rest, you’ll find something new, and you won’t be hurting as much as before.

 _I’m moving forward, mom. I promise_.

Faith let go of him, and he woke up.


End file.
